


Ashes to Ashes

by Mae_Crowe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Angst and Feels, Garridebs, I had too much fun writing this, I know what I'm doing, M/M, Mary is Not Nice, Pain, Poor Lestrade, Poor Mycroft, The Three Garridebs, Whump, briefly changes to Sherlock, honestly if you don't think Mary is evil, leave now, lots of pain, mostly Greg's POV, trust me - Freeform, with some feels and bittersweet happiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-05-18
Packaged: 2018-06-09 06:08:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6893200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mae_Crowe/pseuds/Mae_Crowe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"In all his years as a copper, there was no one case that made him quite as sick as the one that found him sitting before a fire in a government official’s study. It was exactly the type of case Sherlock would jump to be on, he mused, although he supposed there wasn’t much more to be “solved” at this point, just the aftermath to deal with... Not that Sherlock could have solved his own murder, anyway."</p><p>Greg and Mycroft deal with the aftermath of Mary's final move.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ashes to Ashes

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this little thing to satisfy my own twisted desires, but seeing as the response I've gotten on the Sherlock Amino, I decided to post it here. Each part was edited individually. Comments welcome! (I'll try to remember to respond.) :3

**I.**

Greg sat with his head in his hands, feeling bone weary and drained. It had been a long past couple of days, days brimming with tragedy, mystery, and mayhem. More than enough for a lifetime, if he were to be honest. In all his years as a copper, there was no one case that made him quite as sick as the one that found him sitting before a fire in a government official’s study. It was exactly the type of case Sherlock would jump to be on, he mused, although he supposed there wasn’t much more to be “solved” at this point, just the aftermath to deal with.

Not that Sherlock could have solved his own murder, anyway.

“Gregory, you needn’t review the tapes if you do not wish to do so. I’d like to think I’m quite capable on my own.”

He hadn’t heard him answer, despite the fact that he had been presumably tapping his umbrella the whole way in. Despite his characteristic cool manner, Mycroft Holmes looked weathered and beaten down, and Greg could see the pain in his eyes. This was why he was here, he reminded himself. It wasn’t fair to let Sherlock’s brother do this alone.

Rising from his seat with nary a sound, Greg offered Mycroft a sad smile, touching his arm fleetingly. “No. I need to see it with my own two eyes, or I’ll never have any peace. Besides, I feel like I owe them this. Both of them.”

“That makes for two of us.”

There was guilt and sorrow in Mycroft’s eyes as he moved toward the large oak desk at the back of the room, gesturing for Greg to follow him. Propping his umbrella up against the side of the desk, Mycroft took his place in the leather chair, already typing away into the computer in front of him, telltale flash drive sticking out of the side. Greg peered over his shoulder, one hand on the desk, another on the back of the chair as Mycroft sorted through the footage. He blinked, surprised.

“That’s rather clear for a security camera, don’t you think?”

Mycroft coughed. “I think we can assume that Miss Morstan wanted us to see this, Gregory. She ensured the footage would be automatically transferred, decided that it should survive. It is not beyond her abilities to enhance the camera’s capabilities.”

Greg gave a hum of approval, still struggling to reconcile the truth behind John’s late wife and the mother of his child. Mycroft had implied he knew all along, just hadn’t known that she posed this much of a threat. Pulling the wool over the the eyes of the elder Holmes brother? Well done, Miss Morstan, well done, indeed. “And we’re quite sure she’s dead?”

“There’s no way she could have survived the ordeal,” Mycroft confirmed, pulling up other cameras into the same window. “She was closer to the blast than either my brother or John, based on the scene. There was scarcely a thing left, although, rather ironically, this was found.” He slipped his hand in his pocket, and when he extracted it, a blackened ring sat in the palm of his hand. Greg’s breath caught in his throat as he recognized it. The diamond was gone.

Placing the ring on the desk, Mycroft gave it a strange look. “I suppose she thought it would be funny,” he said finally, still eying the blackened metal. “Bringing her wedding ring along when she went to kill my brother, taunt him once more.” He ran a hand down his face. “The wedding nearly destroyed him. I knew even then that something was off, but this…” He let out a sigh, looking down at his lap.

Greg leaned forward, putting a hand on Mycroft’s thigh. “Hey. This isn’t your fault. She’s gone, and I can guarantee John was back by Sherlock’s side when they-”

“Don’t say it. Gregory, you must promise me you won’t say it.”

It was then that he saw just how much pain his companion was concealing, so he leaned back with a sigh, nodding to the screen. “Well then, if we want answers, we should probably watch this. The sooner it’s over, the better.”

Mycroft didn’t respond for a long while, and Greg was almost afraid he had retreated into himself, but finally, he sighed, looking resigned as he started the video footage. Recognizing the need for silence, Greg returned his hand to the other man’s thigh, otherwise giving the screen his full attention.

Unfortunately, Mary hadn’t accounted for the poor audio, so the camera’s own inner workings could be heard whirring; Greg doubted that they’d be able to hear anything above it, and he didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. Regardless, the picture quality of the warehouse was near flawless, even with the hour being late at night. He bit down on the corner of his lip and steeled himself to see the last moments of his friends.

 

**II.**

Mary was the first to enter the room, in all-out assassin get-up, the sort Greg thought only existed in movies. Her blonde hair was tucked up under a black cap, and she wore an oddly-shaped vest that he supposed was protection of sorts, presumably bulletproof. Black combat boots rose to just below her knees, and there was already a gun in her gloved hands, other weaponry at her belt. Then, very deliberately, she turned to the nearest camera and grinned.

Greg felt his mouth go dry. This was the real Mary Morstan, the one she was careful not to let anyone see. The woman who existed, it seemed, only to tear Sherlock Holmes apart. “She’s a psychopath,” he hissed.

Mycroft hummed noncommittally, eyes never leaving the screen. “Sociopath, actually, based on what we can derive. Too deliberate to be a psychopath.”

Greg only nodded, watching as the woman on screen moved off to the side to lean against the wall, studying her hands in an almost bored manner. She was waiting, he realized, waiting for whoever would come to accost her. And sure enough, a short while later, a familiar lanky git came sauntering through the door.

It was all he could do not to yell at the screen, to tell Sherlock to run far away, to get help, to never return to this place, to save himself, to save John. He felt bile rise in his throat when he took notice of Sherlock’s expression: rather than his typical confidence, he oozed vulnerability as he addressed Mary the first time, though his eyes were unwavering.

Mary responded with a self-satisfied smirk and a condensing look, gesturing from herself to one of the cameras before flipping her gun in her grasp and catching it with ease. She was showing off, stalling, Greg realized. He suddenly felt uneasy. Swallowing, he looked to Mycroft in distress. “Do you think she…?”

“Was waiting for John?” Mycroft finished, raising an eyebrow. “I _know_ she was. Her job was to destroy my brother, and what better way than to make him watch as she destroyed the man he gave his heart to?”

“So Sherlock definitely…?”

“Definitely.”

“Right.”

Greg didn’t know if it was more or less awkward, knowing the truth. Mind, he had pretty much already known, but it had never been confirmed in so many words. It was a despicable thing, what that woman had done, knowingly tearing happiness from the grasp of a selfless man simply for the sake of hurting him more later. The two were still engaged in conversation on screen, Mary donning that almost lazy expression of hers, a coldness in her eyes as Sherlock seemed to grow more and more desperate, hands clenched into fists at his sides and trembling madly. Suddenly, he was that lost young man again, the one Greg had welcomed into his home when rehab wasn’t working, the one who drowned his sorrows with drugs all while pretending he had no feelings.

It made him want to scream.

“Ah, and here comes my brother’s beau himself,” Mycroft observed humorlessly, and sure enough, there was a man lurking in the shadows, staying crouched and unnoticed.

Or at least, somewhat unnoticed. Greg groaned, noticing the quirk of Mary’s lips, the renewed glint in her eye. John, meanwhile, crept closer to one of the cameras, gun cocked and eyes an unreadable mask. This was Captain Watson, he realized, the usually concealed half of the only man in the world who could truly handle Sherlock Holmes.

“What’s he doing?” Greg prompted, squinting at the screen. “He could end it now if he wanted to!”

“Strong moral center,” Mycroft responded clinically. “He won’t shoot until there’s no other choice, until one of them is in direct danger. And as Miss Morstan and my brother are only conversing…” He gave the screen a pointed look.

Mary, it seemed, was growing weary of standing in the same place, and she moved to stand at the head of the room, still speaking to an increasingly distressed Sherlock as she moved up a small flight of stairs to stand on a small raised platform. She leaned forward against the barrier and shrugged, presumably in response to a question, engaging in further conversation. And then, all at once, she took aim and fired.

Even with the poor audio, Greg could hear the shot and twin cries of distress. His heart pounded in his chest as he watched Sherlock move into the shadows, dragging John out by the armpits amidst the other’s protests, even as he clutched at his side and staggered. He almost expected Mary to deliver the killing shots right there, but he knew better, unsettled by her expression as Sherlock moved John to the center of the room and peeled off his jacket, exposing a deep red stain.

He simply looked at it in disbelief for a moment before turning to Mary, face contorting into fury as he yelled at her. Greg caught a few broken phrases - “how dare” and “monster” and “following orders” - but he couldn’t care less what they were saying at the moment, feeling more and more squeamish as Mary’s fury colored her expression darker than Sherlock’s own.

The worst part was, it didn’t look like Sherlock noticed or cared anymore. He was now hovering over John, foreheads pressed together, speaking rapidly as tears streamed down his cheeks. John responded quietly, somehow managing a smile despite the pain Greg knew he must be in. He pulled Sherlock into a tight embrace, the detective’s face burying itself in his neck. It was a touching moment, Greg decided, but it wasn’t meant to last.

Mary was moving to the stairs now, anger in her eyes as she spoke, but her voice did not rise. John opened his eyes, still cradling Sherlock to him as he pulled a terrible face, and Greg thought that even if the man was injured, Mary should be running in that moment.

But she remained unmoved, responding with a smirk before taking a second gun into her left hand, leveling both at the man in John’s arms. The man’s eyes flashed, but he simply pushed Sherlock back a bit, speaking to him in a low tone as he cradled his cheek with one hand. Sherlock bit his lip, not even looking at the weapons aimed in their direction, before giving a small nod and a sheepish smile. John’s grin was wide as he kissed the man’s forehead before pressing him back into his neck. Sherlock seemed to brace himself, and John gave Mary a brief nod before doing the same.

Greg was speechless. They were just… giving up? Allowing this to happen? That wasn’t like them, that wasn’t… That’s when he noticed the gun clenched tightly in John’s free hand. And though he had his eyes closed, though he hand an armful of consulting detective, Greg knew, he just knew that-

_BOOM!_

A large mass of fire rose, concealing their view before the footage ended. He was grounded in disbelief, whirling on Mycroft. “But John shot her! I saw the impact right before…” It slowly dawned on him as he recalled Mary’s strange vest. His voice caught in his throat. “The vest… I thought it looked odd, thought it was something of her own design, but…”

“It was concealing the explosives,” Mycroft said with a nod. “I rather suspect Miss Morstan knew there was a possibility our dear Dr. Watson would take desperate measures, and she took a precaution to ensure they’d die with her. Ingenious, really. I am only thankful that she gave them time, let them a few moments of happiness.” He looked down at his hand and swallowed with visible difficulty. Slowly, he reached his hand into his pocket and extracted a folded piece of paper, looking it over. “I suppose the only thing left to do is to honor my brother’s last request. I just wish that-” He gave an aborted sob, hand raising to his mouth as the paper fluttered down.

Greg had already read the note, was there when Mycroft found it. It was thanks to both of them, as well as a few other characters wrapped up in the natural drama of the younger Holmes’ life, a precaution in case he never returned. And underneath it, in hesitant yet unwavering handwriting, was Sherlock’s last request.

_I am nothing without him, Mycroft. We must not be apart._

 

**III.**

Sherlock swallowed as he stepped into the warehouse, heart pounding in his chest in anxiety and anticipation. He kept his footsteps carefully even, his expression the same, but he knew there was emotion leaking out. Mary always got him to react, and he hated it. There eyes met from across the room, where she was standing with her back against the wall, flipping her gun in the air with leisurely confidence.

“Filicide? I expected more, even from you, Mrs. Watson.”

Mary smirked, face adorned with a simpering look that he had long since grown used to seeing. “And that was your first mistake, wasn’t it? You want to see the best in people, you want to believe they can change.” She shook her head with a sad smile. “That’s not how the world works, Sherlock. You of all people should know that.” She sighed, glancing over to the side, clearly not expecting him to pose physical threat. He hated that she was right. “Besides, you were rather close to my daughter, weren’t you? I certainly couldn’t have her corrupted.”

He wanted to scream, he wanted to yell, he wanted to throw things. The only thing that kept him from breaking down was the knowledge that he had the power to actually _do_ something, to change the story, to stop the viper in her tracks. He had loved Rosie, loved her dearly, and he hoped the presence of a child in their midst would be enough to keep Mary under control. Clearly, he was wrong. It was just another part of the game.

“And don’t use that name: John was convenient, that’s all. A way to keep an eye on you and keep either of you from coming after me, you understand.” She paused for a moment. “He knew as well, you know. He stayed silent to protect you, same as you did for him.” She pulled a face, spitting in disgust. “Pathetic is what it is. You like to play at sociopathy, but your emotions rule you. That’s not how it works, Sherlock.”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, unable to resist the bait. “And you would know?”

Mary hummed, looking down at her fingers once more as she started moving toward the stairs.  “I was raised by a Catholic woman, you know. Over in America. I was happy there, but then she adopted another daughter and didn’t have time for me anymore.”

“So you killed her?”

The woman shrugged, leaning over the barrier. “Killed them both, actually. Baby’s first blood: it was a big moment for me, you understand. No one was ever the wiser; the house was burnt down, they assumed I went down with it.” There was a sharpness in her gaze as she fixed it upon him. “Legally, I died when I was sixteen years old. I’ve taken on a few identities since then, but none quite so intriguing as Mary Elizabeth Morstan.” She gave a simpering look. “I thought you’d be pleased; I gave life to a child that never got the chance to live.”

He was trembling by now, clenching and unclenching his fists methodically. “And look what you’ve done with that life,” he growled.

Mary gave the slightest of smiles. “Yes. Look what I’ve done with that life.” And, without warning, she fired into the shadows.

A familiar voice echoed through the room, and it was met with one of equal distress as Sherlock realized what must have happened. John - dear John! - had followed him, and he hadn’t noticed his entrance, even when Mary apparently did. Without any concern for his own safety, any thought beyond seeing how bad the damage was, he threw himself into the shadows, tugging at the smaller man insistently. “Why are you here? You shouldn’t be here!”

John huffed, trying to pull himself free, but wincing when it jolted the wound in his side. The smell of blood was making Sherlock dizzy. “I’m here because you went off on your own, you wanker. I understand more than you’d like to think; it didn’t take much to find you. Stop fretting; I’m fine.”

“If fine means about to bleed out on a warehouse floor, then, yes, fine indeed,” Sherlock snarled, giving John a pointed look as he helped lower him to the ground. John, to his credit, stopped protesting as he removed his jacket, letting out a low hiss between his teeth. Sherlock’s heart pounded in his chest as fury took hold.

Still kneeling on the ground, he turned his face toward Mary. “How dare you,” he bit out, suddenly wanting to make her hurt the way she had hurt him. “How _dare_ you! You do this to me, the one who was willing to give you a chance and make something of your life, even at my own expense. You left clues, Mary, but I turned a blind eye for the sake of being humane, of giving you a chance. And you do this… You set up a trap for me by ending the life of your daughter. You’re a monster. You hear me? A monster! And you don’t even have the luxury of claiming to be following orders anymore, because your higher-ups are dead. You did this of your own violation. You did this to me, to John, to Rosie. You did this!”

The murderess at least had the decency to look affronted at his words, but only for a moment before her face contorted into fury. Still, she said nothing, seeming to calculate her next move. Sherlock couldn’t care less at the moment, suddenly aware that there were tears streaming down his face. He gave a broken sob as he helped John sit up, pressing their foreheads together, feeling all the more to blame.

“I’m so sorry, John, I’m sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen, I just wanted you to be safe, I wanted you to be happy even if that meant you weren’t with me. I’ve been blinded; this was the plan all along, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry about you, about Rosie, about…” He was shaking, unable to go on.

“Hey. Sherlock. Sherlock, look at me.”

Sherlock shook his head, not wanting to see the anger in John’s eyes.

“Sherlock, you’ve nothing to be sorry about.” Sherlock’s head shot up in surprise to find John giving him a tender smile as he tucked a stray curl behind his ear. Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat. “I would have done the same thing for you. You know that, right? You know what you mean to me?” His eyes were beseeching, expression tender. And for the first time, Sherlock saw the truth, and it killed him. He wrapped his arms around the other man, careful to avoid jarring him too badly, pressing his nose against his neck and breathing in John John _John._

“How tender a moment,” Mary cooed mockingly, and Sherlock went to pull back, only to find John’s hand on the back of his head, holding him in place. “Even before you knew, you only had eyes for him. How appropriate you’ll die here together at the hand of the woman you neglected.”

Sherlock felt a growl roll through John’s chest as he clutched at his shirt, wanting to keep him as close as possible. “Don’t you speak to me about love and neglect! You killed my daughter, you killed Sherlock, and you would do it again in a heartbeat! You know nothing of love, Mary, and I’d much rather you stop pretending otherwise.”

Mary laughed lightly, and Sherlock heard the sound of a gun’s safety being shut off. He let out a small breath, holding John closer, knowing exactly what was going to happen. He’d had close shaves with death before, near overdoses, the Fall, the first time Mary shot him, and it was always alienating and distressing. Right here, right now, knowing John was holding him and wouldn’t let him go alone, he felt strange sense of peace, joy in knowing that the only man he had ever loved wouldn’t let him face this moment alone.

He pressed his lips to John’s neck, hoping to convey what this meant to him.

“You’re right,” Mary said solemnly. “I would do it again in a heartbeat, just as I’m going to do before your eyes. I’m not heartless, though, John. I understand being obsessed with another person, and I’m willing to give you a few moments. Make of them what you will.”

Sherlock stayed where he was until John pushed him back a bit, reaching up to cradle his face in his hands, brushing a stray tear away with his thumb. For the first time, his expression was open, expression soft. “Hey… Love, you need to look at me, listen to me, because we don’t have much time. And I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry we wasted so much time. The things I wanted to say to you, the things I wanted to show you love could be… I’m sorry I’ll never get the chance. Just know it was always you, and I’m sorry I wasn’t brave enough to say it. I love you, Sherlock, and I’m not going to let you leave me behind now.”

It was all Sherlock could do not to fall apart then and there. He raised his head tentatively, looking at John from under his lashes with a sheepish smile. “Together?”

John grinned, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Until the very end. Now, brace yourself, Love.”

Sherlock allowed himself to be handled, comforted by John’s scent, and John’s arms, and John’s words and… _My John_ , his mind supplied, and he gave what could have been either a laugh or a sob, allowing himself to relax. It would be easier that way, quicker, less painful. And it wasn’t hard, because despite all, he was happy.

And when the shot sounded, when the warehouse went up in flames, he was smiling.

 

**IV.**

The hospital was eerily silent when they got there, even though Greg knew what was going on in one of the private rooms toward the top floor. Mycroft had ensured a joint room, making visitations easy and maintaining an unspoken promise to his brother. And even though he knew what he would see when he walked into that room, it didn’t make it any easier.

Moonlight streaming in the window, lights off, monitors providing a terrible effect as it illuminated the state of the patients.

Sherlock’s curls were gone, taken by the blaze, and burns shimmered on one side of his face. Greg knew from the footage and the hospital’s reports that his back was in worse shape, and he recognized that it was the position John had worked him into that preserved the rest of his body. Likewise, Sherlock’s own body protected parts of the other man, although his forehead was in a similar shimmery state, as were both of his arms. The bullet wound was treatable enough, and Greg assumed it was simply because Mary hadn’t actually wanted him to die just yet. It was to get Sherlock to panic, that was all.

Both of them had been on life support for a time, and though neither registered as fully brain dead, it was a near thing, and there was very little else the doctor’s could be expected to do. Friends sat around them in hours prior, but they since left,having been told what was going to happen. Mycroft made a small sound beside him, one of pain, and Greg reached out to touch his arm. Their eyes met, and he gave him a small nod.

“I hope you’re happy, brother mine,” Mycroft whispered hoarsely. “Because I am proud of you, even if you’re leaving me. I will not do you the injustice of ignoring your request.” He swallowed, turning to one of the doctors on standby. “I believe everything is in order here, is it not?”

The woman nodded, lined face grim. Greg knew how most of the doctors felt about Mycroft’s request on Sherlock’s behalf, knew Mycroft’s own reservations on the morality of it, but the fact remained that both of the men before them had released twin requests, unbeknownst to the other, just with different wording.

Greg touched his phone through the fabric of his pants pocket, remembering the text that had initially alerted him to the fact that something wasn’t quite right.

_Don’t you dare let him go without me, Greg._

Normally, that wouldn’t be enough, but Mycroft had connections, connections he was wont to use on his brother’s behalf, even if that meant ignoring some law or his own morals. They knew what they knew, and what they knew was enough. It was out of their hands, it was the wordless vow of these men and the world in they lived in.

It was either both or none. And that was the truth.

He swallowed, not meeting Mycroft’s gaze. “John’s sister? Is she coming?”

Mycroft shook his head grimly. “She doesn’t want to be here when it happens. I sent someone to keep an eye on her in case she decides to take desperate measures, but I honestly feel there is little concern seeing as she is back with her wife. She still has someone counting on her.” There was a strange layer to Mycroft’s gaze that wasn’t quite right. Greg swallowed, touching his wrist.

“You still have people counting on you, you know,” he said quietly.

Mycroft glanced over to meet his eye. “Quite so.”

Suddenly aware of the others in the room, Greg withdrew slightly, moving his hand to the other man’s back. He looked at the beds with a wry grin. “You’re both stubborn bastards, you know that? You’re lucky we love you.” He glanced over at Mycroft. “What are you going to tell your parents?”

“I don’t quite know yet, although I suspect Mummy will figure it out of her own accord.” He laughed dryly. “No telling how she’ll react; I can see it going either way, really.”

Greg swallowed a lump in his throat. “Perhaps you should get away from everything for a while, you know, once everything is sorted. Get your head back on your shoulders and all that.”

One of the doctors attempted to step between them. “Excuse me, sirs?”

Mycroft hummed. “We do have an old vacation home out in Sussex. It was more Sherlock’s speed than my own, but perhaps some time away wouldn’t go amiss. The countryside is rather appealing in small doses, I must admit.”

“Sirs?”

“However, I can hardly fathom staying in such a place alone, and you’re just as involved as I am, Gregory, if not more. It doesn’t make much sense for one man to stay in a four-bedroom house alone, and seeing as you too will likely need to get away from all this drama my brother has caused…” Pain flashed in his eyes again, and Greg leaped to push it away, ignoring the doctor’s continued interruptions in the process.

“I’d love to, Myc. You don’t mind me calling you that, right?”

The man’s face flushed. “I typically would, but in this case…”

_“Sirs!”_

Both men rounded on the doctor, indignation ready in their eyes, but she only gave them a pointed look before shoving a bundle of papers into Mycroft’s arms and leaving the room. Greg peered after her in confusion as Mycroft flipped through the papers. “Wait… Doesn’t she have to be here to…?”

Mycroft showed him the papers he was holding, looking flabbergasted. “She returned the papers… I don’t know…”

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

They whirled to first hospital bed to find a wry smile and one open eye, nurses bustling about the cocky bastard. The second bed was engulfed in a similar state of frenzy. Greg was floored.

“But… You… How did you…? You were…”

And Sherlock smiled the softest smile either of them had ever seen. “So did I, but… Tell me, Mycroft… Lestrade… Do you believe in fate?”

And though the man in the next bed did not open his eyes, he smiled


End file.
